Day 1
by king6475
Summary: Chapter 2 is up.
1. Rude Awakening

1. Rude Awakening

All was quiet in Verona Beach, and the fact that it was five in the morning indicated why. Aside from the occasional cars or angry voices outside, the neighborhood was silent. The residents enjoyed the rare occurrence of peace and quiet as they lay tranquil in their beds. With the sun just beginning to peek over the city skyline, the waterfront community was a wonderful sight to behold.

The same couldn't be said for the _Verona Village. _Located in the skid row of Verona Beach,the cheap, crummy apartment complex was mostly designed as a shelter for deadbeat low-income losers or a safe-haven for criminals on the lam. The occupants of apartment 815 were a mixture of both. Actually, as of now, they were only deadbeat losers. But by about 6 AM, they'd be criminals on the lam as well.

One of the aforementioned occupants was hunched over his bed, breathing heavily. His name was Danny Jordan, and he was 19 years old. The shock of both nervousness and anxiousness he had received while hurrying to pack his bags had triggered his asthma and left him gasping for air. His light-blue inhaler, which was sitting on the nightstand next to him, was the only thing that could save him during times like these, and it had done a pretty good job just now. As Dan zipped his duffel bag closed, another teenager appeared at his doorway. This second occupant, looking just as flushed, was his friend Pete.

"Hurry up already. Joey's waiting for us outside." Pete said. "I'll be in the car too."

"Alright, man, I'm coming. Hang on."

Pete disappeared from the doorway as Dan moved over to the nightstand. As he reached for his inhaler, something else caught his eye.

"Shit," he muttered, taking the plane ticket. "Almost forgot about this." He dropped the ticket into his bag and followed Pete outside.

"So, you ready for this?" Pete asked Dan, as they both walked towards the elevator at the end of the balcony.

"Yeah. Of course, man." Dan replied, giving his friend a pat on the back. "Easy money, right?"

"Damn straight." Pete was relieved that his friend was on board with the whole thing. The three of them never really discussed anything after Joey had volunteered them for the job. "We go in, we go out, and before you know it, we're on a plane headed back home."

Dan nodded as they stepped into the elevator. "Yep. Good ol' Vice City.

In a small house on the other side of town, way over in Jefferson, a man lay sleeping in his bed. At first glance, one would assume this man to be somewhat poor, judging by his clothes and how much crap he had lying around his house. This couldn't be farther from the truth. Carl Johnson was in fact, a multimillionaire, manager of a famous rapper, shareholder in a renowned casino, and owner of a private airfield, among other things. He was also a dedicated gang member, who often employed safehouses like this as quiet hiding places.

CJ was not above performing criminal acts such as theft, murder, carjacking, and extortion. Sure, he rarely did these things anymore, but when the opportunity arose, you can bet your ass that CJ would take it. Even more, if you convinced him that it was for a "good cause," he'd be on it faster than a fat man on fried chicken. His trusty cell phone lay on the desk next to him, and through this very phone he received most of his jobs.

It began to ring. It rang about three times before it woke him up, and five before he actually decided to get it. CJ reached over, and with his back making an audible cracking sound, he took the phone from his nightstand.

"Wha..—Hello? Who is it?" CJ asked groggily, as he leaned back into bed.

"It's Sweet. I need your help, bro." came the voice on the other line, which CJ instantly recognized as that of his older brother Sean "Sweet" Johnson.

"Damn, man, it's 5 in the morning! The hell you calling me for?"

"I know, I know." Sweet replied regretfully. "And I wouldn't be calling you so early in the morning if I didn't have something important to say."

"Uh-huh." CJ scoffed. "The time you woke me up so I could buy you more waffles says otherwise."

Unlike CJ's place, the Johnson house was unusually busy at 5 in the morning. GSF members were making and taking phone calls left and right, and one of the OGs was busy scribbling on a sheet of paper at the coffee table. Sweet, still on the phone with his brother, was going back and forth, making sure everything was going well. The gang was hard at work looking up information on a mysterious drug dealer who was rumored to be introducing a new type of drug, one that was currently very popular in Vice City. The GSF knew that this new drug, whatever it was, would effectively cripple their own drug-running business. Unfortunately, the new dealer, who was the only one selling the drug at the moment, was proving to be difficult to locate.

"The hell with that." Sweet replied. "This is important, man. I need your help. The GSF need your help, bro."

"With what?" CJ asked.

"Check this out, man. There's some new dealer set to sell in Glen Park at 6 this morning. Got some brand new shit and everything."

"The fuck do I care?" CJ exclaimed. "That's all you wanted to tell me? I mean, I'll take him out later, if that's what you want, but for now, let a nigga sleep in peace!"

"CJ, you're not hearing me, fool. He's pushing some new kind of drug, and we all know that it'll wipe us out."

"Point being?" CJ shot back, clearly annoyed. "I'm not even in that business, man! _You're_ not in the business!"

"I know, I know, man. But _we_ are. The GSF. You know how much peddlin's been netting us. Ever since we started last year."

"Man, I keep saying, I never liked that idea. To be honest, I think you're a busta' for even allowing it. GSF woulda' never sold drugs back in the old days. Find some other way to make money instead of selling base and shit! You're the boss, man. Change it!"

"You know, CJ, I would, but lately, things ain't been the same around here. For any of us."

"What are you talking about?"

"Now that we're selling the yay, all the other families have shoved their way back in to our set. They want a cut of the action too. I'm sorry, bro."

"Man, that's bullshit. I shoulda' never left, seeing as I can't go a few blocks without you fucking shit up. You a busta, man, you know that?"

"Hey! I ain't the one who ran off to Liberty City after Brian died, nigga!" Sweet retorted, as he snatched a paper from an OG who had his hand outstretched.

"Damn, Sweet? How many times we gotta go over this? I said I was sorry, and I fixed everything. Brought the Grove back up to the top, only to have you bring it back down."

Sweet sighed. CJ was right. And he had a point: He _did_ fix his own mistakes.

"Alright, CJ. You've made your point. Now come on, I need your help, bro."

"Fine. You got a pic or anything?"

"Faxing it to ya' right now." Sweet replied, as he fed the paper the OG had given him into the machine. He took a sip from his Sprunk as he waited for CJ's response.

CJ's low whistle of amazement came through a few moments later.

"Damn, this is a nice sketch! Mikey do this?"

"Of course, bro, who else?" Sweet chuckled. He glanced over to the OG at the table, the one with the pencil in his hand. Mikey gave him a thumbs-up and turned back to his work.

"Alright then. I'll see what I can do. Glen Park, right?" CJ said, exasperated.

"Yeah. Thanks bro. This means a lot to us. All of us."

"Whatever."

The light-blue Admiral passed by the Los Santos Police Department. Daniel Jordan took a wary glance at the officers outside before turning back to his friends.

"You sure we'll be able to get away with this, Joey?" he asked the driver.

Dan had been having second thoughts during the drive. The most trouble he had ever been in was shoplifting a six-pack of beer from Roboi's. What he, Pete, and Joey were about to commit would easily get them 25 to life, each.

"I told you, dude, yes. Kill the stiff, dump him in the trunk, and drive him off to Angel Pine. We'll dump him somewhere secluded, where no one would think to look. Besides, there's three of us. If your gun jams, or if you pussy out, me or Pete will do it. Ain't no way some old dude's gonna take three guys with guns."

"You better be right, Joey." Dan replied. "Fuck, I'm not going to prison. I'm no one's butt buddy."

"Relax, prick. They won't suspect us at all. Now get the stuff together."

Dan reached over to the seat next to him and grabbed the large duffel bag that lay there. He opened it to reveal three nine-millimeters, each equipped with suppressors.

"They're all set, Joey." he said.

"Full magazines?"

"Yeah, they're good too." Dan replied, zipping the bag up.

"Alright. Keep 'em out of sight now. Don't want to screw this up because you didn't hide the guns well enough."

CJ spat the toothpaste foam into the sink and rinsed his mouth before walking into the kitchen. _Damn_, he wondered, as he took a cereal bar from the cupboard. _What's so interesting about one measly-ass basehead?_ He took a quick glance at his clock before he walked out the door. It read 5:27 AM. The dealer was set to arrive at six. _Better be worth my time, _CJ told himself as he shut the front door. His old Kuruma, the only car that was legally his, was sitting outside.

A few seconds later, CJ was backing out of the driveway. As he was doing so, his phone rang.

"Sweet?"

"CJ, where are you, man?"

"Relax, I'm just leaving. I'll be there twenty minutes before he gets there."

"No, CJ, he's the one who's gonna be early!"

There was a pause on both ends.

"The hell you talking about, bro?"

"We just learned that he's gonna be there at 5:30! CJ, you can't let him sell to anyone!"

CJ slammed his fist onto the dashboard.

"Man, I'm sick of this! Tell me what the fuck's going on right now, or I'm out. What the fuck is so important? What's so bad about one more pusher in Los Santos?"

Sweet lowered his voice.

"Alright, listen up. This guy? He's not a drug dealer, he's an arms dealer. Caters mostly to the Ballas. Sells 'em AK-47s and M4s and shit. Now I know I told you otherwise, but I couldn't risk takin' chances."

"Taking what chances?" CJ asked, utterly confused.

Sweet lowered his voice.

"Only a select few of us know what the dealer's really selling. And also, I think we got some kind of double agent here."

"What? Like a spy? How do you know?" CJ asked.

"I don't. But there's this one new guy. He joined our set about a month ago. Real quiet guy. Me an' the boys hardly ever see him, and when we do, he's always talking on his phone. He was in here when I last talked to you, so I had to shut up."

"He could be talking to his moms, for all you know."

"CJ, I ain't fucking wit' you. This guy, Johnny Davis...I don't trust him. I'd probably like him if he were around more often, but that's the thing. He's not!"

"Alright, bro. Calm down. I'm sure there's a good explanation. Will he tell you who he's talking to?"

"No, man. That worries me too. He gets all defensive and shit."

"Oh. Well..."

"I don't know, man. He just doesn't seem right to me, you know? But anyways, bullshit aside, get to the bridge, and stop the dealer. He's not really gonna be sellin' anytime soon, but we can't have him on our streets."

"Fine, Sweet. You owe me for this, fool."

"Yeah, yeah. Ey, you still got that sketch?"

"Right here, bro. I'll call you back when I get to the bridge, a'ight?"

"Keep me posted, man. Later." The line went dead.

"Motherfucker!" CJ swore, pitching his phone into the backseat. He'd have Sweet's balls on a plate for this.

A lone OGF member stood under the Grove Street overpass. He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and dialed.

"Hey, it's me." he said, after the other person had picked up.

"Good to hear from you again. Did you give them the information?"

"I did. I've got them goin' in circles. They're about to go after the wrong person. Right now, our man's probably out in Market, handing out automatics and hand grenades to the boys over there. Sweet sent his brother to Glen Park, man! They don't suspect a thing!"

"That's how it should be. And they don't suspect you either?"

"Hell no. Sweet still thinks it's that fag Johnny. All that dude's doing is talking to his gay boyfriend. To them, I'm still Mikey the quiet sketch artist. Three years, and no one's suspected a thing."

"Keep it that way. I'll talk to you later."

James dropped his phone back into his pocket and walked back to Sweet's house.


	2. Going to Market

Chapter 2

"Sweet! Dammit, man, he ain't here."

"What? But it's 5:30 exactly, bro. You made it in time." Sweet replied. _How could their intel be faulty? _

Sweet tried to remember who had told him about the dealer's change of plans in the first place, but things had been so hectic, Sweet had just about taken the tip without checking to see who'd provided it._  
_  
"The fuck I did! Who told you he'd be here, anyway?" CJ yelled, practically screaming at the top of his voice.

"I don't remember, but--..." Sweet's voice trailed off. "Hold on. I got another call coming in."

Without waiting from a response, Sweet took the second call, leaving a royally-pissed CJ to scream obscenities into his receiver.

"He's in there."

The three hitmen stood on the hill beside the rundown excuse for a living quarters, their silenced pistols at the ready. Dan had no idea why the job called for three people, but he figured, hey, more people, more money. Besides, they had more distance covered in case the guy decided to run.

"Do you have the shot?" Pete whispered into his walkie.

"I've got it." Dan replied, from the other side of the hill. "And Joey will get him in case I miss. Right, Joey?"

Joey nodded from his position along the side of the house.

Dan took a deep breath and leveled his gun. This is it, he told himself. One shot, and we're home free. He squeezed the trigger. And missed.

"You're not gonna like this, CJ." Sweet said, a few minutes later.

"Try me." CJ muttered through gritted teeth.

"I got a call from Tommy up in Market. He and Fat Joe were across the street from the donut shop, last I checked. The dealer's over there, man. In the parking lot. Him and a whole bunch of Balla bitches, congregatin' around and shit. Our boys think a deal's about to go down, bro, and so do I."

"So then Tommy and them can take care of it, right? Go in, bust a few heads, take the heavy weapons and shit for themselves, right? They don't need me." CJ asked, knowing almost full well what Sweet's answer would be.

"That would be the case, Carl, if there weren't about fifteen Ballas at the place. And keep in mind, bro, Tommy and the guys are deep in Balla territory. Shit ain't safe no more. Buying a jelly donut is a matter of life and death for us now. Well, I guess it's always been for Fat Joe, but that's beside the point. Anyway, get your ass over there before our boys get caught."

"Now how the fuck do you expect me to get to fucking Market so soon?" CJ inquired.

"I can't even--" He trailed off as something caught his eye. "You know what, Sweet?" he said a moment later, the tone of his voice having shifted. "It won't be a problem. Call you when I get there."

CJ slipped the phone into his pocket and took off running down the street.

The three huddled around the body, staring at the two fresh bullet holes in its upper torso.

"Sorry, man. I thought I had him."

"Don't worry about it." Joey replied nonchalantly. "You're just lucky I was there to catch him at the door."

"Dump the body in the aqueduct. Those were his orders." Pete said, walking back towards the car.

Joey and Dan hoisted the body into the trunk and clambered into the car. It headed down in the direction of the Los Santos Stadium, as the man on the roof of the parking garage nearby observed through his binoculars.

"They're doing exactly what you told 'em, boss." He spoke into his cell phone.

"Good." the other voice replied. "Be ready for them when they reach the aqueducts. I'm going to call James again and see how things are on Grove Street."

Tommy stood against the wall of the alley, taking occasional glances at the arms deal across the street.

"When did Sweet say CJ was gonna be here?" his friend asked.

Tommy shrugged and adjusted the green baseball cap atop his head. "In a minute, man. Relax."

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving. To hell with the deal. I'm running into Jim's and gettin' me a fat chocolate donut, mothafucker." Fat Joe declared, from his makeshift chair on the pile of cardboard boxes.

Tommy grinned. "Running? More like amble sauntering." He giggled.

"Hey, bitch, I resent that! It's a hereditary problem! My daddy was big, and his daddy was too! It's not my fault!"

Tommy couldn't resist. "Really, man? I had no idea they had Burger Shots in the 1920s. I really didn't—Ow." The plastic cup bounced off his head and dropped to the ground. He wheeled around and glared at Fat Joe, who didn't hesitate to give him the finger.

"Next time, I throw this condom here."

"Hey! They're leaving!" Tommy exclaimed frantically. He pointed to the parking lot across the street, to where the Ballas were beginning to pack up shop.

"What?!" Fat Joe cried, as he sprang up from his chair. He snatched up his Desert Eagle and cocked it. "Forget CJ, man. We have to stop this ourselves."

And with that, he ran into the street.

"For fuck's sake!" CJ exclaimed, as his PCJ-600 motorcycle zoomed down the street. "Did you buy your license?" he jeered, as the car that had nearly hit him came to a halt.

"Go choke a dick!" the driver retorted.

CJ muttered to himself as he flew past the Ammu-Nation. "Damn rush hour dickheads. I just hope I'm not too—FUCK!" he yelled, as the sound of automatic gunfire echoed in the distance. He swore to himself as he passed the police station, too occupied to even begin to care if they saw him speeding.

Tommy popped up from behind the parked Greenwood yet again, catching a second Balla in the arm with his nine-millimeter. The gang member snarled and returned fire on the car, but Tommy had already ducked back down.

"How you doing?" he asked Fat Joe, who was sitting beside him.

"I'm running low, man. This is the last I got." Fat Joe replied, gesturing to his gun. "I mean, I could--"

Before he could finish his sentence, a red PCJ-600 came flying over his head, landing square in the middle of the parking lot. Sitting smack-dab in the middle of the battlefield and fitted with a semi-automatic in each fist, CJ squeezed both triggers, covering the area and any unlucky Ballas with rapid-fire bullets. The guns clicked empty and CJ threw himself off the motorcycle, diving for cover behind the wall of the donut shop. He drew his pistol from his belt, stuck his body around the corner, and fired on the nearest Balla, pulling back behind cover as quickly as he had emerged.

"Get down!" CJ warned the others, as he saw the Balla with the AK-47 emerge from behind the crates. Without missing a beat, the purple-clad gangster fired, instantly turning the assault rifle into a lethal lead-breathing dragon. The mile-a-millisecond bullets fanned the area in front of him from side to side, as he tried to catch one of those Grove bitches who he figured would be stupid enough to show his torso for even a second. He was wrong.

The gun clicked empty, and as the Balla reached for the fresh clip that lay on the crate in front of him, CJ made his move, leaping out from behind the wall with his newly-reloaded .45 clutched in his right hand. The handgun fired three times, each slug meeting its mark in the distracted Balla's chest. His mouth formed a silent gasp of pain as he slumped to the ground, the AK landing next to him.

CJ joined his teammates, who were still crouched beside the car. He handed Tommy a new clip as Fat Joe returned fire on the encroaching Ballas, who seemed to be moving closer with every shot. Just then, a single shot was fired, which grazed Fat Joe in the shoulder and knocked Tommy's baseball cap clean off his head. As Tommy brought his hand up to where his hat had once been, CJ rushed to Fat Joe's side, who had his hand clasped tight over the open wound on his left shoulder.

"Fuck." Fat Joe uttered as he stared at his hand, which was covered with blood.

"It's nothing, man. Here, we'll use this." CJ handed Fat Joe a piece of fabric he had torn from his own shirt.

As CJ dressed his friend's wound, Tommy did his best to hold off the four remaining Ballas.

"How's your arm, man?" he asked, as Fat Joe returned to his position against the car's back wheel.

Fat Joe looked at his shoulder, the whole sleeve of his sweatshirt having been torn off to use as a bandage.

"Not my fault Carl doesn't know how to dress wounds." he muttered.

"And it's not my fault your damn arm's as big as the state of Florida! Now shut up and help me." CJ ordered, as he fired a single bullet that instantly reduced the number of enemies to three and the number of decapitated Ballas to four. "I'm running low here!"

Just then, the all-too-familiar sound of police sirens filled the air. Tommy swore as he glanced from side to side.

"We gotta split, man! The cops are coming!"

CJ shook his head. He knew it was only a matter of time until the bastards showed up. After all, the precinct was only about a mile down the street. But like it or not, he and his friends would finish what they started. They'd kill their rivals, steal the weapons for themselves, and track down the dealer of said weapons. And then they'd kill him too. If the cops wanted to get between the Families and its goals, fine. Like the rest of the GSF, CJ had no qualms killing corrupt, power-hungry cops. He'd already killed two of the most crooked cops the state of San Andreas had ever seen.

With that in mind, CJ made up his mind to ignore Los Santos' Finest for the time being, and to shoot them if they got in his way. Which, most likely, they would.

"Forget them, man!" CJ called to his partners, who were growing more and more anxious with each passing second. "Fuck the cops and fuck these Balla bitches!"

Tommy nodded. Suddenly, a small spherical object arced through the air. It bounced off the hood of the car and landed at Tommy's feet. He took one look at the ball and his eyes widened in realization. Without a single thought towards his own well-being, Tommy scooped up the grenade and hurled it back. It detonated in mid-air, turning the head and torso of the dumbstruck Balla in front of it into red mush. Tommy could hear the cries of surprise from the last two Ballas as he ducked back down behind the car. Fat Joe smiled at him as Tommy shook his head.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "I almost crapped my damn pants."

"Two more Ballas left and the cops are still three blocks away. Think you can handle this?" Fat Joe asked.

"I got this shit, man. I got this."

With those words, Tommy leaped up from behind the car for the last time. CJ and Fat Joe provided cover as Tommy fired two shots into the chest of the Balla closest to him. Moving out from behind the car for the first time, Tommy broke into a sprint, shooting as he ran. The last Balla barely had time to register what was going on before a bullet from each of his opponents' guns tore his face apart. Tommy dropped to the ground, his gun at his side.

"Damn," he breathed, panting heavily."

"We got these bitches!" Fat Joe exclaimed proudly, as the three of them surveyed the damage everyone had caused.

No longer looking like the back end of a donut shop, the parking lot was littered with debris, bullets, empty clips, bullet-riddled cars, and the mangled bodies of the Families' sworn enemy. The battle had been won, but the war wasn't over yet.

"Take the weapons crates into that truck over there!" CJ commanded. "We gotta ditch this place, fast!"

As Fat Joe and Tommy hurried to take the crates, CJ made his way to the Bobcat which was parked on the opposite side of the street. It had taken a few hits during the fight, but the damage was all cosmetic and nothing serious. CJ took his gun and smashed the barrel into the driver's-side window. It shattered instantly, raining glass shards into the interior of the truck. CJ reached in and unlocked the door, hotwiring the car in seconds thanks to a technique he'd learned from a certain mafioso mechanic.

Just then, two black LSPD squad cars rounded the corner behind him, their sirens blaring loud enough to wake the dead. Fat Joe and Tommy came running over as fast as the crates would let them, pausing only to place the crates in the back of the truck. Tommy hoisted himself into the bed of the truck, to guard the crates and serve as the gunner. Fat Joe rode shotgun with CJ, ready to fire on any black-and-white that dared pull up alongside them.

The Bobcat peeled out of the parking lot, the two squad cars hot on its tail. More of them were most definitely on their way, but CJ couldn't worry about that right now. As he struggled to keep the rickety old truck from spinning off the road, Tommy sat in the bed of the truck, searching for something to use against their pursuers. He swore as he rifled through the crate, his search only producing small arms such as nine millimeters and sub-machineguns. Digging deeper into the crate, he came upon a set of grenades. _Better than nothing,_ he thought, as he pulled them out of the crate. He'd have to act fast, though. The police had no intentions of negotiating, the whole precinct being a shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later type.

Tommy pulled the pin of the first grenade and lobbed it towards the closest car. The grenade flew straight for the car, lodging itself right between the windshield wipers. The two cops inside scrambled frantically to loose the bomb from its new housing. The driver stuck his body halfway out the window and snatched the grenade off the hood. He chucked it into a nearby alley, where it exploded harmlessly in a pile of trash. The two cops barely had time to celebrate their close victory before they realized that no one was driving the car. It smashed into a building two seconds later.

"There's one left!" Tommy yelled, the wind whipping against his face. Struggling to keep his cap on his head, he called again. "We can outrun them!"

CJ glanced into the rearview mirror, and noticed that the last car was truly more than a block behind. He breathed a sigh of relief and felt the sense of fear leave him as he headed back to the Grove.

Meanwhile, in the aqueducts beneath East Los Santos...

"You guys have really outdone yourselves." Richter said, as he rolled the corpse over onto its back. "Honestly, I couldn't have hoped for a better result. And you're sure no one saw?"

Joey shook his head.

"We made sure of it. No one was around. No one saw us." he replied, in a voice that wasn't entirely devoid of pride or hubris.

"Good."

"Now, there's still the matter of our...you know...payment?"

"Of course. How rude of me. It's right over here."

Richter gestured to two men and a woman, all of whom were situated behind dirty, old-fashioned card table. The three of them each pulled a leather briefcase from under the table and placed them on top. Richter pointed to the suitcases.

"Fifteen million dollars in each of these suitcases, gentlemen, as promised."

"Great," Pete spoke up, his right hand in his jacket. "There's just one thing."

"What's that?"

The pistol gleamed in the sunlight as Pete tore it out of his holster, leveling it in front of him.

"Drop the cases. You're all under arrest."

"Pete, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Joey cried incredulously.

"Out of the way, Joey." Pete ordered through gritted teeth. "I don't wanna hurt you."

Richter rolled his eyes. "Thank the Lord for pre-planning." he said, and pressed the button on a tiny detonator in the palm of his hand.

The three suitcases exploded simultaneously, spewing flames and fragments of charred green paper into the air. Dan was thrown backwards into the wall, his head smashing upon impact. Pete and Joey were both thrown to the ground, and by the time Pete looked up, Richter and his men were gone. He suspected they'd disappeared through a secret exit somewhere nearby, but there was no time to consider it now. Keeping his gun leveled at Joey's head, Pete spoke into his walkie-talkie.

"This is Officer Jay Box. All units in the area respond. I have a code eight in the Los Santos Aqueducts, directly beneath East Los Santos. Repeat, code eight in the Los Santos Aqueducts. I have a suspect in custody and one who appears to be severely injured. Send backup and a medical team. Over.

Jay shook his head. The set-up was obvious from the start, yet he had never quite expected it. Richter was gone, and Dan was dead. Gallagher would have his head for this**  
**

* * *

**A/N: **The Jay Box in this story is not the same guy from One-Way Ticket. Well, no, actually, he is, but One-Way Ticket is not canon with this story. It's kinda hard to explain, but just keep in mind that this is Cop Jay, and the other one is Zombie Jay. Two different people here. 


End file.
